Coming Down With The Rain

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Picture by Amanda Hunter

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All memories dissolve in the beautiful now.

Likewise,

Thoughts of grief and regret

Are carried away by the wind;

I become the wind,

The rustling leaves of the maples,

The buzzing jumps of the beetles,

The swift movement of the sparrows.

You’re not with me,

But my love remains.

Love beyond the limitations

Of these bodies.

The same love flowing through maples, beetles, and sparrows,

Coming down with the rain

Drizzling on your moon face.

 

Herons

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The Fragrance Of A New Dimension

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Picture: Go Smell The Flowers by Maryanne Jacobsen

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I haven’t smelled this in ages

That’s how it feels today

So fresh, so nurturing.

I’ve stepped into a new realm of possibilities

The sign says: “Go ahead, relax.”

Some cosmic knots have untied

New energy flows smoothly

I welcome all this.

 

Herons

The Blindfold Smile

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Picture: Blindfold #2 by Carol Aust

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Many paths

Many forks

Many gateways.

From a bird’s eye perspective

Observe it blindfold and smile:

You don’t need to know.

On the road,

Sometimes the grime, the smog, the pain

The lines, the fog, the rain

Appear to be dark and vivid.

Please, observe:

They’ve no true meaning, only the mind labels.

Let there be the light of your gaze, now:

From awareness, you move with the Universe.

 

Herons

Red Tulips

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Picture by Laurie Justus Pace

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I wrote this poem when I was eight years old for a Poetry Competition at school. This is an adapted translation in english. You’ll find the original italian version below.

Red Tulips

I see…

Two flames

Above two green stems.

I see…

Two road signs

That shows me the way of fire.

I see…

Two flaming spears

Lodged in the soil.

I see…

Two flowers

That play in the summer.

But the red tulips

Never budged their hips.

I Tulipani Rossi

Vedo…

due fiamme

sopra due steli verdi.

Vedo…

due cartelli rossi

che mi indicano la strada del fuoco.

Vedo…

due lance infuocate

piantate nel terreno.

Vedo…

due fiori

che giocano in estate.

Ma i tulipani rossi

non si sono mai mossi.

 

Herons

Get Off The Train

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Picture by Caleb McGinn

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Suddenly, you find yourself sit on a train car and you see many things through the dusty windows. How on earth did you get there?

This question takes you back outside; the train has disappeared, you can see the sunrise.

The next moment you’re on another train car, and everybody is talking about the sunrise: “How beautiful is the sunrise.” “Oh the light is too strong!” “I remember once, when I was in France, such a beautiful day, the sunrise…” “Who knows the symbolic meaning of the sunrise? According to the ancient…” “It reminds of…” “One day…”

You start running through the clanking wagons, even in the toilet you find people talking. It’s driving you mad. Wagon after wagon it becomes noisier and noisier; the windows are even dustier. You leap through the people in the corridor, they don’t even notice you: all they do is talking. Finally you find a quiet car, near the locomotive. There’s a lonely guy there. He’s talking by himself – you realize that most people on that crazy train are talking by themselves. But the guy stands up when he sees you, he bows to you, point his finger at the sun outside the window and whispers:

“Oh beautiful, but… maybe, I’m thinking too much about it… maybe I’m losing the real thing…”

In the wink of an eye, you’re outside in the middle of the moorland and you observe the sunrise with all your being, you become one with the sunrise. This time you know that you can get off the train anytime you like. You also know that you can observe the trains passing from a distance, you don’t need to jump up. Even if they look beautiful, with golden framework, red maple walls, handsome men and gorgeous women luring you in with their words. Yes, you can choose to get up, take a look enjoy someone’s company, have a drink, a juicy chat about the old days, fantasize about your plans. Trains take you places, that is also true, and helpful at a certain level. But you know on a deeper level that the beauty of the scenery is incomparable from the outside. Outside there is no comparison at all. There’s only silence, and peace. You’re right where you need to be. No past, no future: only now. Take a deep breath and get off the train of thought. Now you’re one with the beauty of creation.

 

Herons

The Eye Of The Beholder

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Picture by anonymous

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See, my brother

See, my sister

See beyond the old mind-filter.

Become the channel,

Let the energy of what you see

Flow through in harmony.

See, my brother

See, my sister

See beyond fear.

Telescope your awareness

Towards what you like,

Towards the bell that rings to your ear.

See, my brother

See, my sister

See beyond detail.

Everything at once,

The wonders of creation

Welcome you to their secret vault.

There, you can see.

 

Herons

The Destination

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Picture: Sound of Silence by Milenka Delic

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The rock is standing high in the sky, a massif. You become the rock as you observe it. You’re aware of the gold veins and sand bones inside of you. The wind scratches your green hair. You welcome the birds, they thankfully nest on your shoulders. They respect you as a sacred altar. So they perform their rituals: birth, songs, sex, life, nourishment, death. You welcome it all. Then you become a young seagull. You cry, you laugh with your friends, you witness the shifts of the breeze. You soar joyfully, you reach the coastal cliffs. The salt in the air feels like home, though you’d never dare going too far from the cliffs. So you descend: you become a crab. You feel the water coming and going, refreshing your shell. But, wait a minute, now you’re levitating. No, better, you’re floating, ‘cause at the present, you’re a pollock fish. The sea is so smooth on your scales, you can go anywhere you want. Now, you feel a little bit different; you’re a mackerel surrounded by your family. You all dance in unison, up, down, left, right. Suddenly something rough scratches your belly and you’re violently pulled upwards. It feels dry, you’re knocked out. There’s is too much light. All your brothers and sisters are struggling to regain their personal space. They’re powerless, and so you are. But you migrate somewhere else. The next blink of your eyes you feel the winds carrying you. A new family materializes: you’ve all been traveling for a while and you’re all a little bit weary. But it doesn’t matter, you’re tough and so are the other geese. It gets chilly as you soar upon a huge block of snow peaks and after some time you see little creatures carrying pink salt cubes on their shoulders. However, you descend again, only to find your claws upon the gritty earth. You feel enormous strength in your muscles and suddenly you’re compelled to stalk a deer who’s drinking at a pool. You slip through the plants with precise stealth. Then a jump, and you can taste the soft flesh of your launch drenching blood on your fangs. You eat passionately, your tiger hunger is satisfied. Now silence. No movements. No pulls. Everything is so simple: you drink light from your branches, water from the roots. You’re merged in an unprecedented sense of peace. You witness everything around you, blindly. The years pass, and you just witness. One day, you die. You reach the final destination, a place that, ironically enough, has always been there. It has never been far from you. Even back in the day when you were a human striving for the spotlight, you were never far from the destination. You’ve always been there. Now you know. Now you are.

 

Herons